Saturday, December 15. 2018

There is a stillness surrounding this converted, former olive farm. Century old olive trees are still gracing some of the slopes and land beyond. The views from atop this gentle knoll reach far to the south west where the sunsets create fiery skies between 6 and 7pm. Behind us, the land rises to rolling hills which give way to the Sierra Grazalema in the east. It is farm land, grains will grow here in summer and there are more olive groves, forests of holm oaks and other shrubs which stay green all year round. Birds seem to be immersed in terribly important, chirpy conversations, while in the distance a tractor is painting winding, parallel lines into the sand coloured field. One of the roosters never gets tired to announce morning, even now at noon.

It has been 11 full days at my retreat and I am loving every minute of it. The many options, the non pressure and the ever-present invitation to go deeper; be that in a yoga pose or conversation. Along with the encouragement to listen to your body and your inner self to only go as far as you feel comfortable to, staying present observing, creating space.

I know to some that might sound very removed and hippy-like, and how are you possibly ever going to implement that into your daily routine. But that is what retreats are all about. Retreating, stepping back from the major outer distractions in order to practice awareness. Exploring, rediscovering, in a secure space, what usually lies dormant in ourselves. The other morning after class this occurred to me that the word retreat can also be read as re-treat. Re-treating yourself: the opportunity to take care of yourself over and over, to become whole.

This winter I left my Tuscan home to volunteer at Suryalila Yoga Retreat Center in Andalucía. I work 5 hours a day for three delicious vegetarian meals, a comfy bed in a shared room and above all at least one daily Yoga class, taught by superb teachers. Mind you, as an ex dance teacher I tend to be quite critical of teachers. What luxury! My body is coming alive, actually every inch of it. Shoulders and arms are getting a good workout with all the sweeping and I feel my hands from holding the broom or mop. In my back a myriad of muscles are being prompted into action. Working through the poses those, as well as all my leg muscles, are being strengthened and lengthened before relaxing in blissful Savasasana. The pose of the corpse, which we take after each class, focusing on relaxing the body while keeping the mind sharply alert and clear.

Whereas in the first couple of days I was insecure and needed my cleaning schedule to be precisely planned, I now work around the odd unplanned sessions happening in one of the Yoga halls and know on which days not to clean the lovely pagodas in the morning hours. Because on these sunny days everyone of the staff and volunteers will be having lunch right there, leaving a mess plus muddy marks with their work boots.

Christmas seems to be happening on a different planet, which seems only fitting the warm, sunny weather. Apart from the dense fog on the way to Cadíz on my day off, I have not yet seen grey skies. As my a matter of fact I felt the need to buy some sunscreen for my face and am toying with the idea of getting a hat for when I am out, sweeping the patios. The giant fig tree is almost done shedding its leaves, as are the other trees. There are only a few flaming red blossoms left on the Bougainvillea while the wind is blowing off the last crumpled leaves from the wild vines. On the trees in the courtyard the oranges are as plentiful as Christmas ornaments, their vibrant colour delightfully contrasting with the lush green foliage.

Thursday, November 29. 2018

Somewhere just beyond the strait of Bonifacio that stretch of Mediterranean Sea between Sardinia and Corsica I am sitting on deck a big ferry which has seen better days, about 25 years ago. The skies are several shades of grey dotted with low longish clouds. A pale sun is trying to break through. It is not really cold but a strong wind was almost blowing me off deck, when I ventured aft earlier on. I am sitting in the shelter of the swimming pool bar, the bar man is lazily setting up for whatever business there might be during a late November crossing. It is Sunday, 8:52 am and the three hundred or so truckers seem to be enjoying their day of rest, sleeping in. Contently bundled up in a winter coat, scarf and woolly hat, I treasure the fresh salty air, a more than welcome respite from the stuffy cabin.

About the cabin. Since one of my goals over the next 3 months is to experiment with how little stuff or personal space I can live, I booked a shared cabin. Admittedly, I was hoping wishing that there would not be another single female in need of a cabin space. Once on board I did enquire about the mark up for a private cabin but decided I‘d rather spend the extra 120 € on something else.

Once I had found my cabin I „staked my claim“ my bunk bed, by putting a towel down on my pillow. The same obnoxious way some tourists are known to reserve their sun bed around the pool of a holiday hotel. Then I went to a very late snack, after all it was already 1am and dinner had been an apple and some cheese at 7pm, I had not been hungry and in a rush to get to the ferry. Coming back, I knocked on the cabin door in order to alert any possible fellow passenger. I tentatively opened the door and in the dim light I made out that the two bunks were entirely covered in stuff. I called out to the person that was in the bathroom, its door stood open. A clearly puzzled lady stepped out tentatively peering round the door.

I am no prude, but was a little surprised at her idea of modesty, or perhaps she was just a little confused. She was wearing some colourful loose pajama pants and a turquoise lacy bra which barely contained her lage breasts. To be honest, I did not know where to look, taking in her otherwise small frame. She spoke to me in English and while taking her things from my bed explained that she thought to have the cabin to herself. It sure looked like it, it actually looked as if she had lived in the cabin for at least a month, her belongings covering every surface. There was a carton of milk and a big jar of yogurt on the window sill, pills, a tube of Voltaren salve, some pills and a mobile modem as well as a small glass of red wine covering the little table. A small suitcase lay open at the foot of her bed and I wondered how on earth it could have held all that paraphernalia. We were both quite embaressed as she hurried to make space for me, while I took in the cloth shopping bag from which some cartons of fruit juices protruded. I pointed to my towel reservation of my bunk and sat down on it, tightly keeping my two bags about my person.

A sea of information was gushing from her in a lovely northern English accent: She lived in Rome during the tourist season, but also near Florence and in the mountains of Umbria and now she was going to her home in south of Spain over winter where she would meet one of her daughters, she had four of them, and six grand children. She would only stay a few weeks near Malagá and then go home for Christmas with the enlarged family, what with the daughters and grand children and the kids from her first husband, they were about 19 in all. Enthralled, I watched, nodding and making approving sounds, as I wondered about the very dark bruises under her eyes. I could not quite make it out, as the lights were very low. In real life, I have never seen someone after plastic surgery, only on TV or in a movie. I did not want to assume anything, but the only other explanation for these bruises would have been some sort of violence. She must have sensed my speculating, and quite matter of factly, in between lamenting about the long wait for all the trucks to board the ferry and her Christmas plans, she almost proudly clarified having had a face lift some 10 days ago.

I was still trying to get a sense for my fellow traveler, when I spotted the wig: curly auburn, mid long hair. She was not bald, nor did she have very short hair, but long, thin dark hair tied to her scalp. So not a cancer wig, I deducted. Perhaps she was a sex worker? She seemed to be very comfortable in her body, still only donning the pj pants and bra. But then again, it might be a myth that a prostitute would not be modest, in their private lives they might even be real prudes. What did I know? I turned my attention back to her story about the customs officer. Apparently he had kept asking her about the obvious discrepancy between the picture in her passport and her appearance. „He kept wanting me to prove that this was really me“, she laughed and we both mused about ways one could actually prove such a thing. „After checking out the prices in the UK – 7.000 € for this surgery I found out that you can have it done for only 3.500 € in Poland, so I went there,“ she merrily continued.

A strange intimacy had been created in our small space, and for once it had not been me doing the talking, or taking over lots of space as I am known to do. I kept to my bunk and my stuff as neatly tucked together as possible, getting into my own pjs. „Would you like to have some milk to help you go to sleep“ she offered. I declined saying that I had had a beer to the same effect. While I retreated into the world of medieval Barcelona provided by my audio book, I kept thinking about wrinkles and face lifts. Once the bruises under her eyes, the vertical scars in front of her ears and the still slight swelling on her neck would have healed she definitely would not look her age. Hell even with the bruises she did not look seventy-three!

Friday, November 16. 2018

Almost every morning our small medieval town Montalcino presides over a valley of fog, making it seem like an island. The temperatures are still lovely and the warm sun dissolves the clouds during the morning hours. Like a huge magnet, the picture perfect blue sky draws people out onto the piazza or the many trails around the old city.

There is a stillness in the air, contrasted by the flocks of fluttering pigeons swarming around the many bell towers. It seems that the entire town, overrun by visitors until recently, is finally breathing out deeply, relaxing into the coming winter months.

Nearly all vines, especially the ones from the organic vineyards, have already lost their leaves and stand naked. By now, most olives have been picked and sent to the press. The extremely green, new, spicy oil is being used to „pimp“ any imaginable dish.

These days, walking to a winery is fun, turning a Brunello tasting into the perfect reward, boosting your energy for the walk back. Remember, Brunello is 100% Sangiovese, its name meaning the blood of Jupiter.

Your goal might not be one of our 220 plus wineries when walking or hiking in our area. Taking in the vast landscape of rolling hills and fields from high above is a sweet bonus. On the western side you might catch a glimpse of the Mediterranean See and the island Elba, while on the other side the other famous hilltop towns Pienza and Montepulciano can be made out in the distance towards the east.

And for just a few moments, go back in time. Imagine that there are no cars and that, until only 150 years ago, all these distances had to be travelled on foot or horseback. Montalcino used to be very isolated indeed. Only with the arrival of the train in Torrenieri in the early 1860ies, getting to cities and thus markets became finally easier. But keep in mind that Torrenieri is still 10 km / 6.2 miles away.

While once walking was essential, often the only way to get from A to B, today walking is almost rare, a luxury even. I remember when going for a walk felt somewhat boring, something one was supposed to do. But over the last 18 months I have come to thoroughly enjoy it. I went from walking 2 or 3 times a week to craving a morning walk each day. One might think that it gets boring after a while. Yet, staying alert, consciously taking in my beautiful surroundings, I keep discovering things along the way. A beautiful flower, an old date scratched into a brick on the wall, as well as very ordinary things.